Juba Good (7 page)

“I was at the rugby game,” I said. “I saw you hotwire this car. Of course, I immediately reported it to the police.”

The woman's eyes blinked rapidly.

“Get lost,” Deng said to her.

Ella didn't have to be told twice. She kicked off her shoes and darted into the bushes.

“You bastard,” Nigel said. “You always have had it in for me. This car belongs to a friend of mine.”

“We can sort it out at the station,” I said.

People were gathering. The kitchen staff. Some of the waitresses. A few stragglers from the bar.

“This is an outrage,” Nigel shouted. The restaurant manager broke through the circle of onlookers.

“What's the problem here?”

He looked at me. He looked at Deng. He reached into his pocket. “I'm sure we can find some way to settle this.”

Deng growled.

Nigel moved. He didn't try to get away. No point in that. Nowhere to go except into the bush. He wouldn't last long there. He pulled a knife out of his belt. It was a goodsized camping knife. The blade, sharp and clean, flashed in the light. It came at me, slicing air, heading for my belly. Startled, I jumped back. I tripped on a rock. My sore ankle gave way. I went down. Guards, cooks, waitresses and drinkers scattered. The restaurant manager squealed. My head hit the ground hard. My vision blurred. I shook my head to try to clear it.

Nigel bellowed and brought the knife down. A straight thrust. This time it was heading for my throat. Gravel cut into my hands as I scrambled backward.

Then the knife was rolling across the ground.

Deng's big hand was wrapped around Nigel's right wrist. With a sharp twist, the Englishman's arm was jerked up behind his back. He grunted in pain and dropped to his knees. He lifted his head. His eyes blazed at me. Spittle formed in the corners of his mouth. “Race traitor,” he spat.

I felt hands on me, and one of the security guards lifted me to my feet. Now they were being helpful. The other guard bent to pick up the knife. I shouted at him to leave it where it was.

Once all danger had passed, the manager hurried over.

“What seems to be the problem, officer?” He rubbed his hands together. His smile was strained.

“Don't think I won't be back,” I said. “I know what's been going on here. I know you're involved.”

“You've completely misunderstood. I've never seen that man before.” He shouted at the waitress who'd been beaten for talking to me. “He was with Ella. Find her. Make sure she's okay.”

The waitress looked at me for a long time. She gave me a small nod. And then she slipped away.

“We'll be back,” I said. “Regularly.”

A clap of thunder sounded overhead. A drop of rain fell onto my hand.

Deng held Nigel on the ground. The Englishman's face was pressed into the dirt. “Get him up,” I said. “And into the truck.”

Chapter
Fifteen

We took Nigel to the police station and charged him with car theft. He made phone calls to the head of the UN mission and the British embassy.

He didn't spend any time in jail.

Once the smirking Nigel had gone, I took Deng back to get his motorbike. We found it where he'd left it. He started up the engine and roared off into the night. Bolts of lightning lit up the dark sky, and the rain poured down.

I had not asked about the woman he'd been with when I phoned.

I'll never know if what I did that night was right.

Deng said nothing, but I knew I'd disappointed him.

He'd wanted to let Nigel drive the woman to the river. Wait until he was about to kill her. Then make the arrest. It wouldn't be so easy to get off a charge of attempted murder. With Nigel in jail, we could have started making the case for the other killings. Same place. Same mo. It should have been easy to prove, even in Juba.

I couldn't take that chance. If we'd lost him, Ella would have died.

I didn't see Nigel again. He was sent back to England right quick. A slap on the wrist for being so foolish as to be caught swiping a car.

His story was that he wanted to meet up with a woman and couldn't get a ride. So he stole a car. He would have returned it the next day.
No harm done, eh, mate?

Nigel denied stealing Sven's Land Cruiser. I had no proof. It was never found. After using it, Nigel would have abandoned it on the backstreets and walked away. It would be in some remote town by now, being used as a taxi.

I searched Nigel's room. Unfortunately, he'd been allowed to pack one suitcase first.

I found a note among the remains of his things.

It didn't have my name on it. But I knew it was for me.

He'd drawn a smiley face in red ink.

A scrap of white ribbon lay beside it.

Serial killers don't spring up out of nowhere. There would have been incidents involving black women in Nigel's past. Unlikely, though, that they ended in murder. He took that big step knowing the risk of being caught was far less here.

A country without the resources to investigate human predators.

A country with only a few people to stand against the tide.

People like John Deng. Good people. People who needed help.

I'd done a lot of thinking while I waited outside the Blue Nile for Deng.

I thought about all that I miss here. My daughters. But they're adults and have lives of their own to live. Jenny, my wife, who I still love after all our years together. Lush green grass and towering old trees. Snowtopped mountains and clean air. Foggy mornings and soft rain. Flowers. How I miss flowers!

This was the heart of Africa. But so dry and dusty. Built up and polluted. There wasn't much color. A few foreign women planted pots of herbs and flowering shrubs. Some of the better restaurants stuck a couple of bougainvillea bushes outside. The flowers were soon covered in dust. The colors faded.

I missed working with men and women like me. With the same life experiences. Same dreams and disappointments.

Domestic disputes and runaway kids. Drunk drivers and car accidents. Bar brawls. Elderly people slipping on the ice.

Same stuff here. Except for slipping on the ice. But somehow, here, in this troubled land, I felt that I might be able to accomplish something. I wasn't just going through the motions anymore.

I sat down at my desk. I opened my email program.

I stared at the screen and thought for a long time.

I'd never told Nigel that I'd been to England a couple of years ago on antiterrorist training. I'd met some officers from Scotland Yard. We'd spent a lot of time drinking in pubs and becoming friends. I'd kept in touch with a couple of them. One was a woman who'd gone into Professional Standards.

Police investigating police.

I might just drop her a line.

But first I had a more important email to send. A much more difficult one.

I had to tell my wife I was going to put in for another year in South Sudan.

VICKI DELANY
writes everything from stand-alone novels of psychological suspense to a traditional police procedural series to a lighthearted series set in the raucous heyday of the Klondike Gold Rush.
Juba Good
is her second contribution to the Rapid Reads series, following
A Winter Kill
(2012), which was nominated for an Arthur Ellis Award. Vicki lives in Prince Edward County, Ontario. For more information, visit
www.vickidelany.com
.

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